Chapter 2 - Missing Faces, Moving Pieces

A day ago…

They ran like their lives depended on it—but only one life truly did.

Rick's legs moved on pure instinct now, numb and mechanical, like the earth had fallen away beneath him. The blood soaked into his shirt was still warm, but it wasn't his. Carl hung limp in his arms, his tiny body unnaturally still, his head lolling with each staggering step. Every breath Rick took tasted like copper and panic. He could feel his boy's weight more with every second—heavier, quieter.

Beside him, Nelson gripped Carl's back, trying to steady him through the jolts of movement, his jaw clenched, his face twisted in disbelief and fear. They said nothing to each other. They didn't need to. Their shared desperation radiated louder than any scream.

Behind them, Daryl shoved the overweight hunter forward. Otis, breathless and soaked in sweat, struggled to keep up, his boots slapping unevenly against the ground. Daryl wasn't having it.

"Hey, you move, shithead!" he snarled, his voice ragged with fury. "Come on, get us there!"

Rick's throat burned as he called out, "Come on!" Then, eyes flickering over his shoulder, "How far? How far?!"

Otis stumbled, pointing past the treeline with a shaky hand. "Another half mile, that way!" he gasped. "Hershel. Talk to Hershel—he'll help your boy. I'm sorry."

Rick didn't answer. He couldn't. He just ran harder. Nelson picked up the pace alongside him.

"Let's go—come on!" Daryl snapped again, giving Otis another push that nearly sent the man tumbling.

Then, suddenly, they were through the trees—and the farmhouse came into view like a mirage, impossibly real: white siding, wraparound porch, rustling crops in the distance. It stood like a memory of peace they hadn't felt in months.

A young woman on the porch—blonde bob, a rifle leaning against the wall behind her—lifted binoculars. Her eyes locked on the bloody chaos sprinting toward her.

"Dad!" she screamed, running for the door, voice full of alarm.

Rick and Nelson stumbled onto the porch, their legs nearly giving out under the weight of Carl and sheer exhaustion. Rick's eyes found an older man stepping outside—a man with a weathered face and eyes that didn't panic. Steady. Sharp.

"Was he bit?" the man asked without flinching, cutting right to the fear Rick had lived with every day since waking up in this nightmare.

Rick barely found his voice. "Shot. By your man."

Behind them, a woman—older, her hands still wet with dishwater—covered her mouth. "Otis?"

Rick's throat closed. "He said find Hershel. Is that you? Help me—help my boy." His words crumbled into pieces as he looked down at Carl's pale, blood-slicked face. The coldness in his son's skin was setting in.

"Get him inside—inside!" Hershel barked, his voice cracking through the tension like a whip. In an instant, the older man sprang into motion, all hesitation forgotten. His hands were already gesturing, directing, demanding. "Patricia, I need my full kit! Yuriya!"

"Yeah?" a young woman's voice called out breathlessly as she rushed in from a side room, eyes darting, arms already moving to obey.

"Painkillers, coagulates—grab everything," Hershel ordered, his voice clipped, military-sharp. "Clean towels. Sheets. Alcohol. In here. Pillowcase!"

There was no panic in his tone—only purpose. Every word carried the weight of someone who had seen the worst… and still believed he could fight it back. Not with force, but with care. With knowledge. With speed.

They moved like clockwork, each step practiced, not from routine but necessity—emergencies sharpened them like blades. Yuriya bolted through a doorway, already shouting instructions of her own. Patricia disappeared down a hall, returning with a bag and gloves. Hershel led the charge into a small room that smelled faintly of old wood and lavender. But that peace was shattered now.

Rick staggered through the threshold with Carl cradled in his arms, barely hearing the words. His world had narrowed to the faint, shallow breaths coming from his son's chest. He couldn't focus on anything else—not the house, not the smell of antiseptic, not the gasps of the strangers around him. Just Carl. Only Carl.

Nelson stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide. He had known Casey was strong, had heard about Rick's leadership—but nothing prepared him for the raw intensity that erupted the moment Carl crossed the line between life and death. Hershel had been a mystery until now. In that moment, he became something more—an anchor in the storm. A stranger, yes, but one who moved with the fierce grace of a man who had seen far too much pain… and refused to see it again.

Hershel didn't look like someone who was used to losing children.

He looked like someone who had lost them before—and was determined never to let it happen again.

Rick stumbled after them, still clutching Carl like the boy was the only thing anchoring him to reality. His arms ached, his breath came in broken heaves, but he wouldn't—couldn't—let go.

"Is—is he alive?" he asked, his voice paper-thin and cracking, like it could disintegrate under the weight of the answer.

Rick knelt beside the bed Hershel motioned to, laying Carl down with trembling hands. The blood was everywhere now—Carl's shirt soaked through, the wound pulsing out red with every heartbeat. He stood—eyes never leaving his son's unconscious body.

Hershel didn't look up. "Pillowcase, quick."

Rick's knees buckled slightly as he searched a table, grabbing what was nearest. He looked again at Carl—so pale, so still. "Is—is he alive?!" The question tore out of him this time, almost a scream.

"Fold it—make a pad. Put pressure on the wound." Hershel finally met his eyes. "I've got a heartbeat—it's faint."

A flash of hope ignited inside Rick. But it didn't last. One faint heartbeat wasn't enough. Not for a child. Not for his child.

Patricia rushed in, snapping gloves over her hands. "I got it—step back."

"Maggie, IV!" Hershel ordered without missing a beat.

"We need some space," Yuriya said, guiding Rick gently but firmly backward. "Please."

Rick resisted at first—just a moment—but then he saw their hands moving over Carl's body with practiced speed. He was no use to his boy right now.

"Your name?" Hershel asked, not looking up as he prepared another clamp.

Rick's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. "R-Rick." It felt foreign in his throat.

"Rick?" Hershel repeated, this time with a grounding calm, trying to lock Rick into the present.

Rick nodded quickly, hands shaking. "I'm—I'm—I'm Rick."

Hershel's eyes softened, but his tone remained firm. "Rick, we're gonna do everything we can, okay? You need to give us some room. Now."

The door behind them banged open. Daryl shoved Otis inside like a prisoner. "Move!"

As Hershel inspected the wound he yelled an order again. "Maggie, ensure our guests are comfortable!"

The woman moved instantly and ushered the men inside the living room.

Otis staggered in, his face ashen. " I… is… he still alive?" His voice broke at the edges, collapsing under guilt.

Nelson stepped in then, pressing a steadying hand on Rick's shoulder as he lowered him into a chair. Rick didn't even notice until he hit the cushion.

"Okay… you got blood on you, man." Nelson crouched in front of him, searching his leader's face. "Where is he—is he okay?"

Rick looked at him blankly, like he hadn't heard. But Hershel answered.

"You know his blood type?"

Rick blinked, then nodded, rapid and dazed. "A-positive—s-same as mine."

"That's fortunate. Don't wander far—I'm gonna need you." Hershel didn't miss a beat as he shifted Carl's torso.

Then, finally, he turned to Otis.

"What happened?"

Otis looked like he wanted to disappear. His eyes flicked toward Patricia, but she didn't meet them. "I was tracking a buck. Bullet went through it… went clean through."

Hershel narrowed his eyes as he probed Carl's wound. "The deer slowed the bullet down, which certainly saved his life… but it did not go through clean. It broke up into pieces." His voice dipped low, grave. "If I can get the bullet fragments out… and I'm countin' six."

Daryl's body tensed like a spring. His voice came out a raw snarl. "This... IS ALL YOUR DOING!"

Otis flinched, backing into the wall as if the truth could crush him.

"HEY!" Nelson stepped between them, palms out, eyes fierce. "Wait. He said it was an accident. That right?"

Otis nodded frantically, shame carving deep lines into his face. "I never saw him. Not until he was on the ground."

Rick sat hunched on the edge of a worn chair, his hands stained with Carl's blood. He stared blankly ahead. The house bustled around him with urgency, but it all felt so far away.

He swallowed, and spoke almost to himself. "Lori doesn't know?"

Nelson answered quietly, "No, she—"

But Rick shook his head, not hearing him. The horror of it finally landed—right in his chest.

His voice cracked. "My wi—" He paused for a split second remembering his conversation with Casey.

He then continued his face hardened. "Lori doesn't know."

And then again, louder, as if saying it again could be a mantra.

"Lori doesn't know."

He bowed forward, hands clamped over his face as a silent sob wracked his chest. No one spoke. The room filled only with the sound of frantic footsteps, medical orders… and the unbearable weight of a father breaking.

In the present with the main group…

The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light across the dusty road as the group trudged back toward the highway. The air was thick with tension, each step weighed down by unanswered questions and the echo of a single, distant gunshot.

Lori kept glancing back toward the treeline, her eyes sharp, worried. Her arms were crossed tightly, like she could physically hold herself together if she tried hard enough. Her voice cracked the silence.

"Why was it just one gunshot?" she asked, more to herself than anyone else—but loud enough to catch the others' attention.

Andrea approached, Amy beside her, brows slightly raised. "You still worrying about it?"

Lori turned to face her, the weight of dread plain in her eyes. "It was a gunshot." Her voice trembled beneath the surface.

"No shit, we all heard it," Kyle a few feet to the side muttered bluntly, he earned a swift cuff on the head from Charlotte who was beside him.

Lori shot Kyle an exasperated look. "Yeah… but why one? Why just one gunshot?"

She wasn't looking for a debate. She was chasing a sinking feeling, one she couldn't name—but couldn't ignore.

Shane strode up to the conversation, arms folded, expression flat as stone. "Maybe they took down a walker," he said casually. "Always some round these woods. Wouldn't be too far off the bullseye, would it?"

Lori turned to him, her face twisting with quiet rage. "Please don't patronize me, Shane."

Her voice was low and sharp, every syllable coated in something colder than anger. "You know Rick wouldn't risk a gunshot to take down just one walker. Daryl's a hunter. He knows how to keep quiet, plus, he uses a compound crossbow. Both would've done it quietly—she didn't know if Rick would but she knew Daryl always did."

There was venom there. Not loud, not explosive—but coiled like a snake beneath the surface.

Shane held her gaze, jaw tight. But he didn't speak.

Off to the side, Natalia stood half-hidden behind the crowd, arms folded, and eyes fixed on Shane. There was a longing in her expression—something unspoken, fragile, and quietly foolish. She wished they were closer. Wished he saw her like he used to see Lori.

But Shane didn't see her stare—his anger flared against Lori's, a blaze born of sparks, shoulders coiled with the heat of unshed wrath, ready to strike, to lash out with words like teeth.

Then—a memory surged, cutting through fury like rain through flame

"If something happens… you've got Kyle."

Casey's voice—steady as dusk settling on a battlefield, wise in a way that stung, a calm that made Shane bristle even as he clung to it.

And just like that, the fire paused, held in place by the weight of something greater than rage.

The heat in Shane's chest cooled, slowly but surely. The fight deflated from his stance.

He blinked.

Where was Kyle?

He glanced around, scanning the group. No rifle. No voice chiming in.

He then spotted him—not far off—leaning casually against the bark of an old tree, sweet-talking Charlotte. She laughed, tucking hair behind her ear, clearly amused by whatever smooth line he'd just delivered.

Shane ran a hand down his face and exhaled sharply, then started walking toward him.

This wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

As Shane walked away toward Kyle and Charlotte, Lori's gaze lingered on him, but her thoughts were far elsewhere. A cold pit had settled in her stomach.

What if it wasn't Rick or Daryl who fired the shot? Nelson? No, he always carries a bow he was never seen using his pistol despite it looking very pristine. What if it had been… Carl?

The idea made her breath catch. Why would Carl need to shoot? What had gone so wrong that her little boy would be the one pulling a trigger?

Her worry twisted tighter inside her chest. "We should've found them by now," she said aloud, not caring who heard it. "They've been gone too long."

Carol stepped closer, arms wrapped tightly around herself. "You're right. It's been hours." Her voice was quiet, brittle. "Something's off."

Andrea walked up beside them and offered Lori a look that was softer than usual, more vulnerable. "You holding up?" she asked gently.

Lori hesitated for a long moment, and then her composure finally cracked.

"I keep thinking," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I don't want Rick… or Carl… to end up like Jim. Dying alone out there. I don't know where they are, wherever they are." Her throat clenched and the tears came fast. "It's the not knowing that's killing me."

She pressed a hand over her mouth, trying to steady herself. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, shaking her head. "I shouldn't have said that. About Jim."

But Andrea wasn't looking at her anymore.

Her eyes had gone distant, cloudy with a grief that hadn't left since the day she had almost lost her sister. Since the day they left Jim leaning against that tree. Andrea blinked slowly, trying to summon that strength she wore like armor.

She gave Lori a small smile—fragile and false, but enough to say it's okay.

Because if she wasn't strong, they'd never trust her with a gun again.

Just then, Shane reappeared, moving with that same forceful stride he always had when he needed to remind people who was still in charge. The shotgun rested across his shoulder, his expression stern.

"Alright," he said, voice sharp and steady. "We'll come back here to search in the morning. But for now, we need to get back to the highway. Night's comin'."

He pointed toward Glenn. "Mark the area."

Glenn blinked in surprise. "Huh? Oh—yeah." He fumbled into his backpack, pulling out a hammer, a bent nail, and a scrap of blue cloth. With shaky hands, he hammered the cloth to the trunk of a random tree, then stepped back.

Lori looked appalled, her face twisted with a mix of disbelief and anger as she turned sharply toward Shane.

"Why are we just giving up?" she snapped, her voice rising above the quiet murmurs of the group. Her eyes blazed with fury. "We need to continue looking. Isn't Rick your friend?"

Shane didn't respond right away, his jaw tightening, his posture rigid. Lori took a step forward, undeterred.

"We need to go find him and his group. They could need our help. They could be in danger right now."

Her voice cracked slightly, emotion bleeding through the edges of her words. The fear, the frustration—it all burst free in a moment of helpless fury. She turned then, addressing the group now, sweeping her gaze across every tired, dust-streaked face.

"It's not hard to just continue," she insisted, her voice trembling. "We just need to hope, and pray they're safe… and find them. So we can all get to Fort Benning. Together."

The silence that followed was heavy. Some lowered their eyes, unable to meet her gaze. Others shifted uncomfortably, caught between exhaustion and guilt. The weight of uncertainty hung over them like storm clouds—and Lori's words had cracked the thunder.

Shane scanned the group, his tone hardening. "Let me tell you something." He paused looking over the group. "It's a waste of time, all this hopin' and prayin'. We're gonna find Rick and his group—they're gonna be just fine. But right now? We need rest. We've been lookin' all day, and that sun's goin' down fast."

The group stood quiet under Shane's words, the weight of exhaustion settling over them like dust after a collapse. No one argued. No one dared. There was a finality in his tone—a kind of quiet command that didn't need to be shouted to be heard.

He turned without another word and began leading them back toward the highway. One by one, they followed. Silent. Tired. Each footfall heavy with more than just fatigue. They carried questions no one wanted to voice—questions too dangerous to say out loud.

Where was Rick? Where was Casey?

First, Rick and his group had gone off to hunt. They never came back.

Then Casey had taken Dylan, full of urgency and conscience-stricken, on what was supposed to be a search-and-rescue mission. But deep down, everyone knew—those kinds of missions never ended clean. Not anymore. This world didn't allow it.

Someone always paid.

And now they were down more of their fighters—leaders, even—when they could least afford it. Fear clung to them like sweat. Hope was wearing thin. This wasn't what the group needed right now.

Not more risk. Not more silence.

Not more missing faces.

And behind them, Lori lingered for just a moment longer—looking out toward the trees, praying to anything that might be listening.

Please… bring them back.

Meanwhile on an abandoned highway…

The low hum of the vehicle's engine was steady—too steady. It filled the silence like a metronome, a slow, dull rhythm that kept Casey grounded in the moment. The only other sound was the soft, metallic click of Dylan setting up his Desert Eagle in the passenger seat beside him. The sound was familiar now—cold, mechanical. Comforting in a strange, post-collapse sort of way.

Casey hadn't bothered to grab a CD from the compartment beneath the old CD player. Music felt… distant. Unnecessary. Disruptive. His thoughts needed to stay sharp, his awareness on full alert. No lyrics could lull him into comfort when survival demanded focus.

The highway stretched ahead, warped by heat and cluttered by a graveyard of cars. Every few hundred meters, they'd stop and loot one of the many vehicles or take silent pit stops where they'd siphon fuel or loot abandoned trunks. The air always smelled like sun-scorched metal and rotting leather. The occasional breeze carried the scent of something worse.

Casey kept one eye on the road and the other on the folded map resting in his lap. At every stop, he'd trace the route with his finger, memorizing intersections and detours, cross-referencing the terrain with his mental layout. He didn't trust GPS anymore—nothing digital had lasted long after the fall.

Dylan sat beside him, tapping a lazy beat on the car's dashboard with the barrel of his gun. The rhythmic tink-tink-tink filled the cabin like a metronome of nerves. He didn't say much—didn't need to. Every few minutes, though, he'd break the silence with some ridiculous comment, usually about Olivia. Always graphic and detailed.

Casey said nothing.

He kept his eyes on the road, knuckles pale on the steering wheel, jaw tight. He ignored ninety percent of what Dylan said—let it roll off like rain on glass. But the other ten percent? That stayed with him. He filed it away in the quiet parts of his mind where things were kept and measured, where observations turned into plans.

Dylan was useful. No denying that. He could shoot. He didn't flinch when things got ugly.

But trust? That was something else entirely. Trust wasn't given—it was built. And Dylan… Dylan was still under construction.

The sun had begun its slow descent toward the west, painting the sky in streaks of orange and copper. Afternoon was sliding toward dusk, the world dipped in a quiet, golden haze that made the land look softer than it really was.

But there was no softness inside the car.

The light filtered through the windshield, catching on the dust smudged across the glass. It cast long shadows across the dash, over Dylan's slouched form and the matte-black shape of his rifle resting lazily in his lap. He was still tapping but with his fingers now, still humming some tuneless rhythm under his breath.

Casey didn't say a word.

The silence between them wasn't companionable. It was tactical. Casey's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then to the treeline ahead, scanning like a soldier trained by survival. Every sound, every shape in the distance could mean something. Could mean death.

He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, letting his mind work behind the calm mask on his face.

They were headed into unknown ground. Rick's team had vanished. And it was just him and Dylan on this search-and-rescue mission—and it felt more like a slow spiral into bad luck.

He let out a breath through his nose and shifted gears.

The engine rumbled. The sun dipped lower. And with each mile, dusk crept closer—along with whatever it was that might be waiting out there in the dark.

"How many more miles?" Dylan asked suddenly, not looking away from his gun. His fingers moved over the weapon with casual familiarity, like he was polishing a family heirloom rather than a tool of violence. His voice was flat, lacking urgency—just a man passing time until something worse came along.

Casey didn't answer right away. His mind was elsewhere, spinning through mental maps, worst-case scenarios, the voice on the radio—half-garbled, half-pleading. Were they truly in need, or laying bait for fools?

He tightened his grip on the wheel, the leather slick with old sweat and tension. Finally, he spoke, eyes still trained on the road, voice steady and even.

"According to my calculations and the layout I memorized, we've got a couple more kilometers. Low tens. Just before we hit a small town."

He let the information hang there for a beat before adding, "Once we get the poor soul—assuming he doesn't try anything stupid—we loot the nearby supermarket, then double back and rejoin the convoy."

Dylan exhaled hard, leaning back against the seat with a loud, tired sigh. His eyes flicked up to the roof of the car, then over to the side window, watching the trees blur by in burnt orange and creeping shadows. Casey couldn't tell if it was boredom or something deeper—maybe Olivia again, maybe the tension of knowing they were driving toward trouble with no clear idea of how deep it ran.

Either way, Casey didn't ask. Didn't care. Not right now.

This wasn't about feelings. This wasn't about Dylan's obscene distractions or whatever was eating away at him under all that sarcasm and bravado. It was about the mission. About the thin, fraying thread of purpose that kept moving when sleep was a luxury and peace was a myth.

There was a job to be done.

Rescue whoever was trapped. Keep Dylan alive. Secure whatever supplies they could before the town went cold. And survive—because that was the bottom line. That was always the bottom line.

Then, and only then, would he think about the rest.

The faces left back at the highway. The weight of what they were risking. The dread curling in his stomach every time he imagined finding nothing but a corpse and a trap. All of it could wait.

For now, Casey's focus narrowed to the road ahead, the low hum of the engine, and the loaded silence of a world that never stopped punishing hope.

Seconds dragged into minutes as the road narrowed into a lonely funnel of cracked pavement and overgrown brush. The woods thinned, revealing a stretch of civilization that hadn't seen the living in a long time. The horizon shifted—less highway, more remnants of a forgotten town. A battered road sign leaned at a twisted angle, its rusted bolts barely holding it to a splintered post. The paint was faded, peeling from weather and wear, but the name still whispered out through grime and bullet holes: Sharpsburg.

Casey eased his foot off the gas.

What sat ahead was the target of their long, tense drive—a run-down gas station, clinging to the edge of the town like it was afraid to sink deeper. Half-swallowed by weeds and time, it looked like something gutted and left to rot. The windows were jagged with broken glass, signage sun-bleached and hanging crooked. The automatic doors, inexplicably still intact, twitched against their hinges now and then, like nerves firing in a corpse.

But the real problem wasn't the building—it was what surrounded it.

Dozens of walkers.

They packed tight against the front of the station, shoulders jammed together like bodies in a mosh pit. Some were barely standing—missing chunks of flesh or dragging snapped legs—but still they threw themselves forward, driven by instinct and the scent of something warm. Again and again they slammed against the doors, their moans rising like steam, guttural and wet. Fingernails scratched the glass in frantic pulses. Heads thudded. Teeth clicked. One walker bashed its face so hard against the pane that its forehead split, leaking black ichor in sticky streams.

It was a wall of death, starving and unrelenting.

Casey brought the car to a slow halt, a few meters out—just far enough to avoid detection, just close enough to feel the gravity of what lay ahead. He shut the engine off. The silence that followed was somehow louder than the car's rumble. A living stillness, punctuated only by the distant snarls.

He rolled down the window with mechanical precision.

The autumn air came in like a slap—thin, sour, light with decay. The rot was layered. Not just the walkers, but the building, the earth, the past. Sunbaked flesh and old gasoline. Ash and mold. It was the smell of death and everything it touched.

Casey didn't speak. Neither did Dylan.

They sat there, still and silent, eyes on the gas station like it might move first. Neither reached for their weapons yet. No plans made. No bravado. Just tension so thick it coiled in the lungs.

Because whatever was in that station—whoever was still alive—was running out of time.

The sound of the undead battering the glass—groaning, gurgling, snarling through broken teeth—filled the silence between them like thick smoke. It was constant, rhythmic, maddening. A percussion of death echoing off crumbling walls and shattered windows.

Casey stared ahead, his body still, his eyes locked on the gas station's warped facade. The horde clawed and slammed with tireless resolve, a twitching mass of rot and hunger. There was a hollow tightness in his chest—not fear, not exactly. Not anymore. But the tension was real. Dense. Measured. Controlled.

This wasn't panic.

This was survival.

And this was already more complicated than it should've been.

Beside him, Dylan shifted in his seat, leisurely, like he had all the time in the world. He turned his head and caught Casey's eye, expression unreadable except for the faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

"Soooooo… what now?" he asked, as if they were stalled in traffic and not parked in front of a death trap. His tone was light, borderline amused. That was Dylan's armor—humor. Sarcasm. A mask that grinned through blood and horror. Casey had learned not to trust it. Not fully.

Casey didn't answer right away. He drew in a long, slow breath, then let it out sharp through his nose. Not a sigh—more like a reset. A purge of hesitation. Make room for focus. For calculation.

His eyes scanned the scene again, mapping exits, counting walkers, watching for anything that moved outside the predictable rhythm of the dead.

"I don't know," he said finally, voice low and deliberate. "We could try sneaking in through the back. Circle around. See if there's a door."

Dylan raised a brow but said nothing.

Casey continued. "But we don't know if it's locked. Any form of B&E... it's gonna make noise. That many bodies packed together?" He gestured subtly toward the glass. "They'll collapse the front trying to get to us. We won't outrun that."

He paused, chewing on the edges of reality.

"And even if we get in… we don't know what shape the guy's in. He could be injured. Bit. Dead. Or worse…"

"Loud," Dylan finished, this time with no hint of amusement.

Casey gave a slow nod.

Then, from within the gas station's shell, a sound split through the cacophony—a scream. Muffled but sharp. Terrified. Human. It was gone as quickly as it came, swallowed by the throaty moans of the dead slamming harder now against the glass.

Casey's jaw tightened. His stomach coiled.

"Shit," Dylan muttered, his tone shifting. He looked at his Desert Eagle and checked the chamber with practiced hands. Click. Slide. Loaded.

"I guess that answers that," he said quietly. "Someone's still in there."

Casey didn't respond. He didn't need to.

The air between them had changed. Gone was the pretense. Gone was the illusion of choice.

Now there was only the mission.

Now there was only the decision:

Get in… or walk away.

But they both knew the answer already.

Casey reached into the back seat and quietly drew his Tsurugi from its sheath, the steel singing as it slipped free. The blade caught the dying light—clean, narrow, and sharp enough to cut through bone. Its surface gleamed with cruel elegance, the kind of weapon forged not just for killing, but for precision. For control.

Beside him, Dylan reached for his own weapon of choice—a battered Louisville Slugger, its wooden surface chipped by grime and stained with dried blood. It was from walker skulls, scuffs from panic swings, and the memory of violence etched into every inch. Just like them. Weathered. Worn. Still here.

He slung the bat over his shoulder and, with a practiced flick, chambered a round into his Desert Eagle. The click echoed lightly in the silence. Tension simmered between action and stillness.

That's when Casey paused. Mid-motion, mid-breath, something clicked into place behind his eyes. His expression sharpened—not with fear, but calculation.

A strategy.

"I got an idea," he said, voice low and focused—like he was speaking more to the air itself than to Dylan. "I've never done it before, so we'll be on time… and luck."

Dylan turned slightly, brow arching. "That's not encouraging," he muttered, but he didn't press. He was watching now—really watching. Reading Casey's face. Looking for any trace of hesitation.

There wasn't any.

Casey leaned back slightly, slipping into a thinker's posture he'd learned from others. His fingers flexed around the Tsurugi's grip, his gaze fixed not on the herd ahead, but the woods to their side. That sliver of wilderness might be their way in.

"Here's the plan," Casey said. "We find four walkers. Alone. No crowd. I take off their arms—clean cuts. You knock out their teeth, smash their jaws with the bat."

Dylan blinked.

"We tie them together with that rope we found in the backseat of the Honda. Strap them up. Close. No arms. No bites. And we walk with them."

Dylan's eyes narrowed. "Walk… with them?"

Casey nodded turning around and gabbing the rope from the floorboard behind his seat. "They might mask our scent. We blend in. They won't notice us. Rick and Glenn once covered themselves in walker guts to pull that off. But this… this might be cleaner. If we don't give ourselves away, we can get close enough to the building to figure out how to get in—and get that guy out alive."

He didn't say the obvious part: Or die trying.

Dylan stared at him for a beat too long. Then he laughed once—short and humorless. "That's either brilliant or suicidal."

"Most good ideas are both," Casey replied flatly, suddenly remembering how someone had said that to him before, but they were already dead—six feet under.

Another silence passed between them. Casey sighed and tossed the rope to Dylan and checked his Colt before winding the windows up.

Dylan finally nodded, adjusting his grip on the bat. "Alright. Let's go hunting."

They slipped out of the vehicle, crouching low, the sun dipping further westward behind them. Shadows stretched long across the ruined road. Behind the gas station, the walkers moaned and scratched and gnashed without end.

And the two men vanished into the brush, blade and bat ready, chasing madness in the name of survival.Top of FormBottom of Form

The forest welcomed them with shadows, branches swaying gently in the wind like arms motioning them forward. They didn't speak—didn't need to.

They ran only a short distance before they spotted the first walker, its back turned, swaying idly like a drunk under the moonlight. Casey's hand tightened around his sword hilt. He looked at Dylan who nodded at him, eyes sharp now, all doubt hidden under years of instinctive fight-or-flight.

Casey surged forward, unsheathing his Tsurugi in a fluid motion. The blade gleamed, sharp and cold in the slanted light of the late afternoon sun. He moved with purpose—silent, surgical.

One clean swing, and the walker's right arm flew free, severed at the joint. It spiraled through the air before hitting the forest floor with a wet thud. The creature groaned, staggering, still reaching mindlessly with its remaining limb.

Casey didn't hesitate. He stepped in, driving a heavy kick into the walker's chest. Bone crunched under the force of it. The walker tumbled backward, crashing to the ground with a guttural snarl, limbs flailing against the dirt.

Before it could rise, Casey was on it again—swift, efficient. He circled around and brought the Tsurugi down with brutal grace, slicing the last arm off at the shoulder. Blood sprayed out in chaotic arcs, dark and sticky as it painted the fallen leaves. The walker shrieked but didn't stop moving—its jaw snapped wildly at the air, rage and hunger still pulsing through its half-disabled form.

He stepped back, breathing steady, and let Dylan move in without a word.

Dylan didn't hesitate. One vicious swing of the bat connected with the walker's face—crack! Bone shattered. Teeth flew. Another swing—crack!—and the lower jaw disintegrated into pulp, a mess of ruined flesh and bone fragments.

The walker writhed beneath the blows, its mouth now useless, its groaning reduced to a hollow, gurgling rasp. It wasn't dead. Not yet. But it couldn't bite. That was all they needed.

Dylan worked fast, pulling a length of rope from his pack and looping it around the walker's neck. He yanked it tight, cinching it like a leash. The walker groaned again, staggering to its feet, but its movements were sluggish, dulled. Still hungry, still dangerous—but not in the way that mattered.

Restrained. Controlled. A tool now, not a threat.

Casey watched it with narrowed eyes.

It stood like a broken dog… Obedient. Hollow.

He didn't smile. Not really. But there was something grim in the small curl at the edge of his lips.

Then his eyes caught something in the distance—shapes on the ground. He motioned Dylan over, who tugged the jawless walker behind him like a macabre pet. As they stepped into the clearing, the scene revealed itself.

Five walkers. Or what was left of them. All dead.

Their heads had been expertly cleaved, limbs separated cleanly. The blood was fresh—still thick and dark on the grass—and it painted a clear picture. Whoever had done this wasn't just skilled. They were efficient. Cold. Surgical.

Casey crouched low, inspecting the kill site.

"Whoever did this… must've been skilled with a blade," he whispered, reverent and cautious. "These weren't mercy kills. These were executions. Look at the blood spatter—it's messy but not panicked. Whoever it was… they weren't even rushing."

He glanced at Dylan, who stood frozen, his eyes wide at the carnage.

Dylan finally broke the silence with a crooked grin. "I originally thought it was you who did this."

Casey huffed a dry breath through his nose—almost a laugh. "Even I couldn't pull this off in a few seconds… and I ain't arrogant enough to try."

He stood and looked up. The sky had shifted while they worked—now a deep bruise, streaked with violet and amber. The sun dipped low, looking more like a bleeding fruit than a guiding star.

"We gotta move," he said, urgency creeping into his tone. "We need more than one walker, and night's gaining on us the more time we waste."

Dylan nodded chuckling at the passive joke, his grip tightening around the bat. Their lone pet groaned behind them, the sound almost mournful.

The game had changed.

And now… it was time to suit up for it.

At the farm…

Rick sat in a chair inside the living room, his blood stained hands trembling. The world felt like it was collapsing in on itself—too small, too suffocating.

"I should've sent him with Lori," Rick said, voice low, brittle. He was staring ahead, but not at anything in particular. His eyes looked past the bloodstained towels and the frantic hands working to keep his son alive. "Why'd I let him come with us?"

Nelson stood beside him, arms crossed but his posture loose, grounded. Daryl was off to the side sipping a bottle of water. He studied Rick for a moment before turning to look outside. Nelson looked lost before he started responding. "If you start that sir... you'll never get that heat off your chest."

Rick turned, eyes pained. "We go huntin'. Simple. You said, 'Let's head back'… then we heard the twig snap… then a buck appears… Carl wanted a closer look… I… I thought I was being a good father by making him go… but— "

Nelson raised a brow cut him off. "With all due respect, sir… does it really matter what I said?"

Rick shook his head, half in disbelief, half in blame. "Yes. Yes, it does. Carl got shot because I wouldn't cut bait. Should be me in there."

Nelson paused and stepped forward, his voice nervous but firm. "You've been there, right sir? I heard from others. They said you pulled through." He paused, nodding toward Carl. "Maybe he will too."

Rick's voice broke, the weight of it all catching in his throat. "Is this why I got outta that hospital? Found my family... for it to end here? Like this? Is this some kind of s-sick joke?"

Nelson looked around, voice softening in an attempt to calm his leader. "You need to stop that mentality, sir."

Rick wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, blood from his arm smearing across his cheek. "We went huntin'... Carl got shot. It's plain and simple."

Before Nelson could respond, Maggie rushed in, eyes wide with urgency. "Rick… he needs blood."

There was no hesitation as they all went to the room Carl was in. Patricia, acting as Hershel's assistant, stuck the needle in Rick's arm. Rick grimaced, not from the pain, but from the fear that he wasn't doing enough.

In the corner of the room, Hershel positioned himself over Carl. "You, hold him down."

Carl's cry split the air like a whip. "Dad!"

Rick nearly lunged forward, but Daryl beat him to it. "I got him," Daryl said, his grip steady but his eyes pained as he pressed Carl's shoulders down.

"Almost there," Hershel said, voice focused.

Rick's composure cracked. "Stop! You're killin' him!"

"Rick, do you want him to live?!" Hershel barked back, not out of anger, but sheer desperation.

Patricia was already checking the blood flow. "He needs blood!"

Carl screamed one last time before his body went limp.

"Do it now! Don't wait—" Daryl's voice snapped out, rough and urgent. "Hol' up… HEY! HEY!" His hands clamped down tighter as he felt the kid go slack underneath him.

Hershel looked up. "He just passed out. One down… five to go. Pressure's stable."

At his words Daryl calmed down, but only a little.

Rick looked as if the floor beneath him had disappeared. "Lori needs to be here," he said to no one in particular, eyes darting to the door. "She doesn't even know what's going on. I got—I gotta go find her, bring her back."

Hershel interjected. "You can't do that."

Rick's voice rose. "She's his mother! She needs to know what's happened. Her son's lying here—shot!"

Hershel's tone was steel. "And he's going to need more blood. You can't go more than 50 feet from this bed."

Nelson stepped up again. "Um… sir?"

"I'm all right. I'm all right—I got him," Rick muttered, but his knees buckled slightly from blood loss and sheer stress.

"You're stable, for now," Nelson said carefully, placing a hand on Rick's shoulder. "But you need rest, sir."

"Lori has to be here. She has to know."

"I get that, sir," Nelson replied, voice gentler now. "I'm gonna handle it. But you've gotta make sure you take care of yourself, sir. Secure your end."

"My… my end?"

"Yes, sir. Your end is being here, for your son." Nelson looked Rick dead in the eye. "Even if he didn't need your blood to survive, there is no way I'd ever let you walk out that door, sir. Man, I—I'd break your legs if you tried. I mean, I don't want to hurt you, you know that, right? But if something happened to him while you were gone... if he slipped away?" His voice cracked. "You'd never forgive yourself for that sir. And neither would Lori."

Rick blinked, the words settling into his chest like lead. "You're right."

"See? That's what you gotta have now," Nelson said, nodding. "Carl needs that from you. So wire yourself tight, sir. You've got the hard part. Just leave the rest to me, sir."

Rick nodded slowly. "All right."

"Good. All right."

Hershel stepped away from Carl's side, hands soaked in red. "He's out of danger for the moment, but I need to remove the remaining fragments."

Rick swallowed hard. "How? You saw how he was."

"I know," Hershel said, rubbing his brow. "And that was the shallowest one. I need to go deeper to get the others. Oh, man—there's more."

Rick stepped forward, dreading the answer. "Tell me."

"His belly's distended. Pressure's dropping. Means there's internal bleeding. A fragment must've nicked one of the blood vessels. I have to open him up, find the bleeder and stitch it. He can't move while I'm in there. At all. If he reacts the same as before, I'll sever an artery—he'll be dead in minutes."

"Then… what? You gotta put him under?"

Hershel nodded. "To even try this, yes. But if I do, he won't be able to breathe on his own."

Rick clenched his jaw. "What'll it take?"

Otis, who'd been standing quietly, finally stepped forward. "You need a respirator. What else?"

"The tube that goes with it. Extra surgical supplies. Drapes. Sutures," Hershel listed.

Rick's voice sharpened. "If you had all that… you could save him?"

"If I had all that, I could try."

"The nearest hospital went up in flames a month ago," Otis added. "But the high school… that's what I was thinkin'. FEMA set up a shelter there. They'd have everything."

Otis looked grim. "Place was overrun last time I saw it. Couldn't get near it."

Nelson stepped up again a small smile plastered on his face. "I said leave the rest to me, sir… Is it too late to take that back?"

Rick looked at him, his mouth parting slightly in protest, but the words never came. It was just him, Nelson, and Daryl. Carl had been shot—there was no denying that now—and they were far too few, far too scattered, to risk trekking through the woods just to reconnect with the rest of the group. Daryl was tough, sure, a survivor through and through, but Rick had seen what it did to people, trying to make that journey alone with danger at every turn. If anything happened to Daryl out there, they'd be down another fighter. And Nelson? Nelson was about to walk into what amounted to a suicide mission.

The thought of Nelson heading out alone, without backup, without even his walkie… it hit Rick like a cinder block to the chest. They were dead in the water. No communication, no backup, just blind hope and desperate prayers. And the worst part—Rick had told Daryl that at least they would still have each other. That had been the one thread of comfort holding him together. But now, Nelson was pulling away from that too, ready to sacrifice himself for Carl without a second thought.

Rick clenched his jaw, his eyes heavy with conflict. He wasn't too fond of Nelson going off by himself, not even close. The man had already done more than anyone could ask—he stood by them when he didn't have to, bled for them in spirit if not in flesh. And now Rick was watching him walk toward danger alone, like some old soldier taking one last step onto the battlefield. But Nelson was young. Sure, he had some form of experience when it came to hunting and fighting but it wasn't right. It wasn't fair. But it was necessary. And that made it all the harder to swallow.

"I'd hate you goin' alone, Nelson," he said finally. "What about Daryl?"

Daryl, who was playing around with one of his bolts—deep in thought—looked up from his fidgeting. "Nah, I think I'll stay here. Help keep the fort down in time for the rest to come looking for us."

Rick bit back a curse, jaw tightening as he stared at Daryl's unmoving stance. The man was like a stone wall—unyielding, immovable—and while that kind of backbone was rare and even necessary in this dead world, it could also be dangerous. There was value in grit, in the refusal to bend, but not when it was pointed at the wrong people. Not when it pushed against the hands trying to help you. In another life, Rick might've respected it more openly—hell, even admired it. But now, all it did was spark fear.

Because being stubborn at the wrong time, or toward the wrong person, could get you killed. And in this world, death didn't always wait its turn. There was a whole damn encyclopedia's worth of reasons why digging your heels in could backfire—how pride could crack alliances, how ego could derail plans, how one wrong word at the wrong moment could blow up everything you'd fought to keep together. Rick knew it better than most. And while now wasn't the time to flip through that book, the weight of it still pressed against his chest.

He looked at Daryl, not with anger, but with the heavy ache of someone who's already buried too many.

Nelson looked at the floor then back at Rick as if in silent contemplation before a thought crossed his mind. "We might need a map so we can find our way back without any detours."

Otis looked at him a gleam of pride in his eyes, "You won't need a map—I'll take you there. Ain't but five miles."

The words hung heavy in the room, louder than they should've been. Patricia stepped forward, her face pale as parchment, eyes wide with fear. "Otis, no," she pleaded, her voice cracking under the strain. There was a tremble to her hands, the kind that came from knowing a goodbye might be final.

Otis didn't look at her right away. He simply raised a hand, gently but firmly. "Honey, we don't have time for guesswork," he said, his tone softer now, but anchored in quiet resolve. "And I'm responsible. I ain't gonna sit here while this fella takes this on alone. I'll be all right."

Patricia backpedaled, her eyes wide and glistening. She looked caught between breaking down in tears and screaming outright, her breath hitching in her chest. But somehow—barely—she held herself together, her hands trembling as she clutched her skirt.

Daryl saw it all. Didn't say nothin', but he noticed.

He always noticed.

Nelson hesitated beside him, glancing between Otis and Particia. His face was conflicted—he wanted to be brave, wanted to step up—but the weight of what he and Otis were about to do pressed on him. "Are you sure about this?" he asked voice almost cracking under the sheer poundage of the previous conversation.

Otis turned and looked him square in the eye, not unkindly. "Do you even know what any of the stuff he's talkin' about looks like?"

Nelson let out a half-hearted chuckle, a weak attempt at levity in a grim moment. "Come to think of it… a little."

"I've been a volunteer EMT," Otis said plainly his voice almost carrying a hint of boastfulness. "I know them better." He paused, letting the gravity of it settle in. "Now, we can talk about this till next Sunday… or we can just go do it real quick."

There was a beat of silence. Then Nelson gave a quick nod, expression firming. "I'll take the real quick." He spoke with an air of unease, but it left as quickly as it came.

Rick exhaled, the breath shaking on its way out—more a tremor than a sigh. His eyes flicked briefly toward Otis, who stood a few feet away, not even offering a word of comfort to his wife. The pettiness of it hit Rick harder than he expected, souring in his gut.

Still, now wasn't the time.

He forced the thought down, burying it beneath the weight of everything else. Emotion cracked through the shell of his exhaustion anyway, bleeding into his voice as he looked at Hershel.

"I should thank you," Rick said, his tone thick, words pulled from somewhere deep. Somewhere still holding on.

Otis offered a faint smile—tired, kind, and resolute. "Wait till that boy of yours is up and around… then we'll talk." And with that, he turned to gather what little gear he could, moving with the kind of quiet courage that came not from a lack of fear, but from love, duty, and a deep understanding that sometimes, you didn't wait for a miracle—you became it.

In the silence that followed, Maggie lingered by the door, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her voice came low, barely more than a breath—but it sliced through the thick quiet like a scalpel.

"Where is she—Lori?"

Rick blinked. For a moment, he looked like he'd forgotten where he was, like his mind had been miles away. Then he pulled himself back, drawing in a shallow breath.

"She's with the main part of our group," he said, voice rough. "Back on the highway. They're probably wondering where we are."

He ran a hand down his face, weariness hanging off him like a second skin. "Hell… I'm wondering that too."

Maggie paused, her gaze lifting to the sky. The horizon was painted in hues of orange and gold, the last light of day stretching long shadows across the yard. It was beautiful in that fleeting, heavy way—like the world was trying to remind them it could still be gentle, even now.

She looked back at Rick, her expression softening just a little.

"You're at the Greene Family Farm," she said, her voice quiet but sure. "I know this is kinda late, but I'll say it anyway."

She turned slightly to glance at the group of men behind him—bloodied, exhausted, each of them carrying their own weight of grief and grit.

A small smile touched her lips.

"Welcome."

As Maggie's greetings lingered in the air, a door creaked open down the hall.

A blonde girl stepped out, wiping her hands on a towel stained with antiseptic and old blood. She moved with a quiet kind of confidence, the kind earned through doing the hard, ugly work no one else wanted to. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, a few loose strands stuck to her forehead with sweat.

She looked young—maybe Nelson's age—but her eyes were sharp, steady. There was no fear in her expression, just calm.

She glanced at the group of men clustered near the room where Carl lay, then offered a warm, easy smile that contrasted the tension in the room.

"Hi," she said, voice clear and casual. "My name is Yuriya Greene. Nice to meet you all."

The group of men exchanged glances—tired, wary, uncertain. No one spoke. They didn't have to.

In those few seconds, everything was said in the tightening of jaws, the subtle nods, the flickers of relief laced with suspicion. It was the kind of silent communication born only from shared trauma, from nights spent shoulder-to-shoulder in the dark with death just beyond the treeline.

Daryl munched on some salvaged chips. Nelson gave a barely-there nod, eyes scanning the porch through the window and fields beyond. Rick sat still, his shoulders lowering a fraction as if the word "welcome" had finally registered—not just as hospitality, but as hope.

Still, no one moved to embrace the moment. Not yet. Not fully.

Because in their world, even peace came with conditions.

A little while later…

Rick stood by the truck, the weight of his Colt heavy in his hand—though not as heavy as the gratitude burning in his chest. He turned it around and pressed it into Otis's palm, his voice low but firm.

"Just get what you need and get out of there," he said, every syllable clipped by worry.

Otis took the pistol with a quiet nod, handling it like it was made of glass. "That's a fine weapon, Rick," he said, giving it a look of muted respect. "I'll bring it back in good shape. Only one I got."

Rick didn't answer. He just looked the man in the eye, jaw clenched, heart pounding. Otis wasn't a soldier. He was just a man—stocky, kind, with too much guilt in his eyes and a sense of duty that outweighed his fear. Rick wanted to stop him. Wanted to stop both of them. But this was the only chance Carl had.

Nelson climbed into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut with finality. He glanced back at Rick, offering a tight nod.

"Stay strong, sir."

Rick swallowed, too choked up to reply. He gave a slight nod back, his blood-drained hand tightening around the frame of the truck.

Otis packed the rifle he'd used earlier—the same one that had accidentally shot Carl—into the back, his movements heavy with shame. He didn't speak about it. Didn't have to. The silence said enough. Then the truck roared to life, tires crunching over gravel as they pulled away from the farmhouse, carrying hope and risk in equal measure.

On the porch railing, Daryl watched them go, leaning back on his elbows with a distant look. He exhaled through his nose and muttered, "Man, this turned into one hell of a day."

Rick didn't respond. He couldn't. His eyes lingered on the horizon long after the truck disappeared, praying that the two men in it would make it back—and that his son would still be breathing when they did.

Hershel stepped up beside him, his voice gentle but insistent.

"Let's check on your boy, Rick."

Rick nodded slowly, dragging his feet back toward the house, each step feeling like it was carved out of stone.

Back at the RV…

The air was stale and hot, the kind of oppressive heat that didn't let up even under shade. Dale dropped a small pile of salvaged goods onto the hood of the RV—a handful of dusty batteries, a half-empty bottle of pink electrolyte water, a beat-up machete he'd fished out from the trunk of an abandoned KIA, and, oddly enough, a scuffed guitar he figured Glenn might take a shine to. He wiped his brow with a trembling hand and sighed.

"No drugs," he muttered aloud, shaking his head. "You?"

T-Dog stood nearby, eyes sunken and glassy, sweat slicking his face. He lifted a few blister packs and a pill bottle weakly. "Yeah. Ibuprofen... and these."

Dale gave a tight nod, about to say something when T-Dog's voice lowered—not in pitch, but in weight.

"What are we doin' man?"

Dale glanced over. "Pullin' supplies together. You know—"

"No, I mean what are we doin'?" T-Dog cut him off, a tremor in his voice that was half fever, half fear. "People off in the woods, lookin' for that sheriff's group... and we're here. Why?"

He stepped closer, not waiting for an answer. "Because they think we're the weakest. What are you, seventy?"

Dale blinked, caught off guard. "Sixty-four."

"Uh-huh." T-Dog gave a bitter chuckle and swayed on his feet. "And me, Nelson, and Casey are the only black guys. You realize how precarious that makes my situation?"

"What the hell are you talking about? If both of them are black then they'd think of you a little more highly." Dale reasoned, his voice sharpening.

"I'm talkin' about two good ol' boy cowboy sheriffs and a redneck whose brother cut off his own hand... because I dropped a damn key. In that scenario, who do you think's gonna be the first to get lynched?"

Dale stepped forward, his voice raised, the usual calm in his tone giving way to disbelief and heat. "You can't be serious. Am I—Hey, am I missing something here?"

He looked around, searching the face of T-Dog as frustration crept into his eyes.

"Those 'cowboys' have done right by us," he went on, louder now. "And if I'm not mistaken, that redneck went out of his way to save your ass—more than once."

He took a breath, chest rising with the weight of it all, and pointed a finger for emphasis.

"Plus, if anything? I think Casey and Nelson would defend you without a second thought. That kind of loyalty doesn't come cheap—not anymore."

The fire in his voice softened just a bit, but the weight behind it didn't waver. Dale was many things, but blind to loyalty and character wasn't one of them.

T-Dog's eyes flicked away, his jaw tightening as bitterness edged into his voice. "And Andrea."

He shook his head slowly, as if the words tasted wrong even as he said them.

"She watches Jim die and acts like he was some big part of her life... then flips out on everyone like she's the only one hurting."

He scoffed quietly, the sound dry and sharp.

"Then wants to blow up in their faces just 'cause her gun got taken. Yeah. She's all there."

There was a pause, the weight of frustration hanging in the air. It wasn't just about Andrea—it was the pressure, the grief, the fear pressing on all of them, and T-Dog was finally letting some of it slip through the cracks.

Dale inhaled sharply, grief flashing in his eyes. "Jim is already dead, and she's havin' a tough time, man."

T-Dog turned away, fists clenched at his sides. His voice cracked but came out loud. "The whole damn world's havin' a tough time! Damn, man—open your eyes! Look where we are. Stuck on this road like live bait!"

"Shh!" Dale hissed, eyes scanning the tree line.

But T-Dog wouldn't stop. His thoughts had built into a feverish storm, and the floodgates were wide open. "Let's just go. Let's take the RV and go. You and me. Before they get back. While we still got the chance."

Dale stared at him in horror. "You've gone off the deep end."

"I mean it, man!" T-Dog barked. "Why are we sittin' here like we ain't already dead?! Let's go before they turn on us. You think they won't?!"

And then it hit Dale all at once—the flushed cheeks, the wild eyes, the trembling hands.

"Oh my God..." he whispered, stepping forward, he put a hand on T-Dog's forehead. "You're burnin' up."

He snatched the ibuprofen from T-Dog's hands, shaking out a few pills urgently. "Here. Take these. Come on. We've gotta knock that fever down."

T-Dog swallowed them with a grimace, but his breathing was ragged now, and his eyes darted around like a man seeing ghosts.

Dale looked out toward the woods, heart hammering in his chest.

Where the hell were they? He thought grimly

About 100 yards from the highway…

The forest pressed in around them, dense and oppressive, branches like skeletal fingers clawing at their clothes. The sun was dipping lower, shadows growing long and spindly across the leaf-strewn ground. Lori's chest rose and fell with shallow, anxious breaths. Every step felt heavier than the last—each one dragging her closer to some unknown, invisible cliff. Her fingers were trembling as she brushed a damp strand of hair from her face.

"How much farther?" she asked Daryl, her voice tight, barely steady. It wasn't just about the distance anymore—it was about how much more she could take.

Daryl didn't look back, his eyes scanning the woods ahead, his boots crunching rhythmically on dead leaves. "Not much," he said gruffly. "Maybe a hundred yards… as the crow flies."

Andrea let out a bitter, shaky laugh, forcing a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Too bad we're not crows," she muttered, swatting away a low-hanging branch. She stumbled slightly and caught herself, the humor bleeding out of her tone. "Oh… oh! As the crow flies, my ass."

Lori turned, startled. "Andrea?"

But Andrea had frozen.

Her eyes were wide, wild with panic, and then her voice shot up in a scream. "No—no—Oh, no!"

Before anyone could react, the walker burst from the trees—its rotting face twisted in hunger, limbs jerking with unnatural speed. It tackled Andrea to the ground, snarling, its teeth snapping inches from her face. She shrieked, but the sound was thin, strangled—fear lodged so deep in her chest it barely came out.

She struggled beneath it, the dead weight crushing her, cold fingers clawing at her shirt. The earth beneath her was hard, gritty with leaves and gravel scraping her skin. For a terrifying moment, she froze. This is it, she thought. I'm going to die like this—screaming, alone, on the forest floor.

"Amy!" she managed to gasp.

But Amy was already running, her feet pounding against the dirt, panic etched into her face. She reached her sister and threw herself at the walker, grabbing its rotted shoulders and yelling, "Get off my sister!" Her voice cracked, desperate. She tried to pull it back, heels digging into the earth, muscles straining.

The walker snarled, jerking toward her. Amy's eyes widened. She flinched, realizing too late that she'd put herself in danger.

Then the sound of hooves erupted through the woods—loud, fast, thundering like a drumbeat.

A figure burst through the trees atop a charging horse. She was young, dark-haired, her posture taut with purpose. One hand gripped the reins, the other raised a baseball bat high above her shoulder. She didn't hesitate.

With a cry, she brought the bat down with crushing force as she rode past. The walker's skull cracked like a melon under the swing, its body collapsing in a limp heap beside Andrea.

The horse circled, its rider pulling up just enough to scan the stunned group. Her breath came in quick bursts as she looked around.

"Lori Grimes?!" she called out, voice clear and urgent.

Lori stepped forward, heart hammering in her chest. "I'm Lori," she said, though the words barely felt like hers.

The girl—Maggie—nudged the horse closer. Her face was flushed, eyes burning with urgency. "Rick sent me," she said quickly. "You've got to come now."

Lori blinked. "What?"

"There's been an accident," Maggie said, her tone softening only slightly. "Carl's been shot. He's alive, but you've got to come. Rick needs you—now."

Lori staggered, her knees buckling just enough that she had to catch herself. She opened her mouth to speak again, but nothing came out.

Shane stepped forward, shielding her , hand clenching his shotgun. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said sharply. "We don't know this girl. You can't just get on that horse."

Maggie held her ground, not flinching, not backing down. She turned in the saddle, eyes locking on Glenn.

Maggie's voice was brisk, businesslike, but there was a warmth underneath it—a kind of urgency rooted in concern, not just efficiency. As she pulled the reins and snapped the horse into motion, Lori barely hesitated. She mounted behind her with determination, gripping the saddle and glancing back once at Shane, her expression unreadable.

"Rick said you had others on the highway," Maggie said as a matter of factly over her shoulder. "That big traffic snarl?"

Glenn blinked, still catching up. "Uh-huh."

"Backtrack to Fairburn Road," Maggie instructed, already guiding the horse into a tight turn. "Two miles down is our farm. You'll see the mailbox—name's Greene. Hi-yah!"

She kicked the horse into motion. The animal surged forward, galloping through the trees, hooves pounding against the forest floor until she disappeared into the underbrush. Glenn watched them disappear down the road, the echo of hooves fading into the wind, carrying with it the first true lead they'd had in days.

Kyle stood there, staring after her, muttering under his breath. "Shut up…" Earning another cuff on the head from Charlotte.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Nobody spoke. The only sound was the wind whispering through the trees and the echo of hooves fading into the distance. Andrea sat trembling where she'd fallen, Amy holding her tightly, her face buried in her sister's shoulder. Sophia just stood there, frozen, too little to catch her spinning thoughts.

Somewhere ahead… Carl was bleeding out, every second a cruel tick of a clock they couldn't stop. Somewhere behind… Casey had gone with Dylan, swallowed by the silence of the woods and the weight of a mission they might not return from.

Sohpia clung to the horse as it galloped, her mind torn in two directions—toward her friend, clinging to life, and the man who saved her, lost somewhere behind the treeline.

Neither place offered comfort. Only questions. Only fear.

At the farm…

The golden light of afternoon spilled across the open fields, washing the land in warmth. Rolling pastures stretched in every direction, flanked by white fences and thick groves of trees that whispered softly in the breeze. It was peaceful—too peaceful.

Rick stood at the edge of the farmhouse porch, his eyes sweeping across the land as if it were some vision out of another world. A place untouched by the rot and ruin they'd been living in.

He exhaled, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "This place is beautiful."

Hershel Greene stood beside him, hands tucked behind his back, his posture upright, proud. "Been in my family a hundred and sixty years," he said, glancing out at the fields as if he were seeing the ghosts of every generation that had come before.

Rick shook his head slowly. "I can't believe how serene it is. How untouched…" He turned slightly toward Hershel. "You're lucky."

Hershel's smile thinned into something sadder. "We weren't completely unscathed," he said, the words heavy. "We lost friends. Neighbors. The epidemic took my wife. My stepson."

Rick's jaw tensed. He nodded, voice soft. "I'm sorry."

"My daughters were spared," Hershel went on, glancing back toward the house. "I'm grateful to God for that." He paused, taking in the peaceful land again. "These people here… all we've got left is each other. Just hoping we can ride it out in peace. Till there's a cure."

Rick lowered his gaze. The words stung. He didn't want to be the one to break hope—but hope built on fantasy was dangerous.

He looked up again. "We were at the CDC," he said slowly. "It's—it's gone now. There is no cure."

Hershel's brow furrowed, and he shook his head. "I don't believe it," he said. "When AIDS came along, everyone panicked. One boy in town came down with it and some parents pulled their children from school, just so they wouldn't have to sit in the same room."

Rick frowned. "This is a whole other thing."

"That's what we always say—'This one's different.'"

Rick's voice turned firm, almost pleading. "Well, this one is."

But Hershel didn't flinch. "Mankind's been fightin' plagues from the start," he said, steady. "We get our behinds kicked for a while, then we bounce back. It's nature correctin' herself. Restorin' some balance."

Daryl off to the side having finished his snack had taken the time to clean his crossbow and having heard enough of the back-and-forth, stepped in with a gritty drawl, voice low but laced with the sharp edge of frustration.

"You say that now," he said walking up to the two men, fixing Hershel with a hard stare, "but have ya had a good, decent look at what's happenin' around ya? The walkers you claim can be cured—hell, some of 'em got half their damn face missin', holes big as my boot in their gut, and you wanna tell me there's comin' back from that?"

He shook his head slowly, disbelief etched into every line of his face. "Best start placin' bets on when Jesus is comin', 'cause short of a miracle, all we're doin' is buyin' time from death—and nothin' more."

Silence and stillness followed, heavy and uncomfortable, but Daryl didn't care. He'd seen too much, lost too much, to stomach false hope dressed as reason.

Hershel stood stiff, Daryl's words settling in him like needles—sharp, unwelcome, and hard to ignore. Each syllable clung to his conscience, tugging at threads of faith he wasn't ready to unravel. His jaw tightened. His weathered hands clenched at his sides. But he didn't respond. Couldn't. Not without admitting the possibility that everything he'd clung to—his hope, his beliefs, his reason for keeping those people locked in his barn—was a lie. So he stood there, silent, refusing to surrender.

Rick's eyes drifted downward, toward the pasture beyond the farmhouse steps. It was quiet—too quiet. Nothing stirred in the fading light, and the eerie stillness wormed its way under his skin. The world felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

"I wish I could believe that," Rick murmured, his voice barely more than breath, carried away on the cooling wind.

Then, even softer, almost to himself, he added, "I'm sorry."

Suddenly, hooves thundered across the nearby field—breaking the silence, slicing through the still air. Rick turned sharply.

From the tree line, Maggie and Lori galloped in fast on horseback. Lori clung to Maggie, barely upright, her hair whipping in the wind as the horse tore across the field. Her eyes were fixed on the house.

Rick didn't hesitate. As soon as Lori hit the dirt, she bolted—legs pumping, breath ragged with fear and desperation. Maggie had reached out, trying to help her dismount, but Lori was already gone, racing toward the farmhouse like her soul had leapt ahead of her body.

Rick followed, moving fast but controlled. He wanted to reach for her, to offer comfort, to say something—anything—but she tore past him, boots hammering against the floorboards as she vanished inside. Toward Carl.

He stopped just below the steps, jaw clenched tight. His breath steamed in the cooling air, but it wasn't the weather that set his blood to a simmer.

Casey's voice resurfaced in his mind, dragging him backward to a conversation that had changed everything.

Flashback…

"Remember when I asked you to follow me to the RV door?" Casey had said quietly, his tone level but heavy with weight. "We heard them. Talking about you. About your marriage with Lori."

Rick had stood still, a statue of strained calm.

"We walked into camp, and your wife came running. Threw her arms around you like she'd been holding her breath since the world ended." Casey's gaze had hardened. "But I scanned the crowd. I saw Shane."

He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to sink the blade deeper.

"He wasn't happy. He looked at you with envy—and at Lori like she belonged to him."

Rick's breath had caught then, only slightly, but it was enough. The crack in the foundation.

Casey leaned in. "That night… when I found that knife in the dirt? I stepped out for air. Couldn't sleep. And I saw Shane… standing on top of the RV. Alone. Watching your tent."

His voice dropped to a razor's edge.

"That look he had—it wasn't longing, Rick. It was hate. A man trying to hold onto something he thinks he lost. And you were in the way."

Rick had dropped his eyes, staring toward the fire, toward the shadows and the silhouettes cast by torchlight.

Casey hadn't stopped. "They had an affair. Shane told her you were dead. That's how he got in. Slid into her life like a snake through tall grass."

Rick's hands had flexed—no words, no denial, just tension coiled deep in his chest.

"You're sure?" he'd asked, finally, voice flat and slow.

Casey hadn't answered. He hadn't needed to.

Flashback end…

Now, Rick stood on the porch, watching the farmhouse swallow Lori whole as she sprinted to their son's side.

His fists clenched again, knuckles whitening, the heat from his fury rising beneath his skin like magma ready to erupt. He hated how right Casey had been. Hated the situation. Hated what it meant.

And still—Casey had stopped him from killing Shane.

It gnawed at him like a dog at a bone. The rage. The betrayal. The need for justice.

But Casey had said no.

And Rick was still trying—barely—to listen.

He followed slowly, each step heavier than the last. The fire in his eyes had dimmed—snuffed out, replaced by something colder, harder. A storm beneath the surface. His face was unreadable, a mask carved from stone. But just as the chill settled in his expression, it cracked—softened.

Because all of it, everything else was forced aside by one thought.

Carl, his son.

The boy lying inside, between life and death. And in that instant, Rick wasn't a betrayed husband or a man teetering on the edge of wrath. He was a father, and nothing else mattered.

Lori reached the room Carl resided and nearly threw the door off its hinges.

And there he was—Carl—still, pale, unconscious. Gauze wrapped around his side, the sheets damp with sweat. A shallow breath escaped his lips.

Lori's knees hit the floor beside the bed.

"Oh, my baby boy," she whispered, voice breaking. She touched his face, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. "Baby boy…"

She pressed her forehead to his chest, shaking. "It's okay. Mama's here. Mama's here." Her voice was a fragile chant. "You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay. We're gonna make you okay. Slow… slow…"

She looked up at Rick, her face wet with tears. "How many transfusions?"

Rick sat on the edge of the bed, his arm freshly bandaged. His face was drawn and pale. "Two," he said softly. "Only two."

Lori's voice broke into a sob. "You know… he wanted to do the same for you when you were in the hospital. I had to talk him out of it."

Her words trembled in the quiet room, hanging in the air like smoke.

Rick looked down at Carl—his boy, pale and still, chest rising only slightly under the bandages. A small, sad smile ghosted across his lips, a flicker of something too fragile to name. He didn't speak. Didn't need to.

The silence said enough.

It lingered—heavy, thick—but Lori didn't press. She noticed the quiet, the way his gaze didn't lift, the way his hand hovered near Carl's without touching. She saw it all. But she pushed the feeling aside, tucked it away like so many other things, and turned her full attention back to their son. Her hand gently brushed back Carl's hair, her breaths shallow but steady now.

There was a quiet knock at the door before Hershel entered. He carried a glass of orange juice, condensation beading along the rim. He handed it to Rick with a gentle nod.

"You'll need your strength," he said. "You've done your part. Now we need Nelson and Otis to do theirs."

Rick took the glass, his hands trembling slightly. "They'll make it back."

Hershel nodded but didn't quite smile. "I'll have a far better chance of savin' your boy if they do. The equipment at that school… I've done this kind of surgery before. But I have to be honest with you…" He paused, his eyes meeting Lori's with quiet gravity. "I'm a vet."

Lori perked up at this, a flicker of hope flashing in her eyes. "You're a veteran?"

"No," Hershel said gently, but firmly. "I'm a veterinarian."

The words hit like a slap. Lori froze, her breath catching in her throat. The color drained from her face as she stared at him, not quite comprehending.

Rick stepped in, his voice calm but urgent, placing a steadying hand on her arm. "We don't have the luxury of shopping around."

But Lori was already unraveling. Her voice rose, cracked and raw with fear. "He's just a boy. A little boy!" Her hands gripped the edge of the mattress like it was the only thing keeping her upright. "And you're not even a doctor? You're completely over your head!"

Hershel didn't flinch. He let her words land, absorbing the pain in them without judgment. His gaze remained on Carl, focused and steady.

Hershel then met her gaze calm and collected. His voice was soft, but it carried.

"Ma'am…" He exhaled slowly. "Aren't we all?"

The room fell quiet. The only sound was the faint ticking of a nearby clock… and the weak, shallow breaths of the child lying between life and death.

Back at the RV…

A heavy silence hung over the camp like humidity before a storm. The wind stirred the treetops gently, but among the group, the air was thick—unspoken tension crackling just beneath the surface. It was the kind of silence that made even the birds go quiet, as if nature itself was bracing for something worse.

Dale stood at the foot of the RV, hand resting on the ladder rail, eyes scanning the treeline like a hawk. He had heard screaming earlier—distant, frantic—and it still echoed in the back of his mind. Something about it had felt final.

His heart hadn't stopped racing since.

Then he saw Glenn. The younger man was charging back toward the camp, wide-eyed, breathless, practically stumbling over his own feet. One look was enough to know—something was wrong. Very wrong.

Dale stepped forward, voice tight, barely above a whisper. "What's going on?"

Glenn looked like he'd seen a ghost. Pale. Eyes darting around, as if the words were playing hide-and-seek in his brain. "Carl's been shot."

The words punched Dale in the gut. He blinked, stunned, trying to process. "Shot?" he echoed. "What do ya mean shot?"

"I don't know," Glenn said, a raw edge of frustration cutting into his voice. "I wasn't there. All I know is—this chick, she rode outta nowhere like Zorro on a horse, grabbed Lori, and just took off."

Dale frowned, shaking his head like it might help untangle the madness. "You let her?"

Before Glenn could even open his mouth, Daryl's voice cut in from behind—gruff, weary, and laced with irritation. "Climb down outta my ass, man. Rick sent her. She knew their names—Lori, Carl. She's one of them."

Dale's head turned between them, trying to keep up. His gut twisted with unease. "I heard screaming earlier," he said slowly. "Was that you?"

Glenn's eyes dropped. He nodded once, guilt flickering across his face. "She got attacked by a walker. It was close. Too close."

Dale's gaze drifted past them, locking onto Andrea.

She stood by the RV like a statue, arms wrapped around herself, her body present but her mind somewhere far, far away. Her eyes were empty—haunted.

Dale approached her cautiously, quietly. "Andrea," he said. "Are you all right?"

She didn't respond. Didn't flinch. Didn't blink. She was holding herself together with sheer force of will, like one wrong word would shatter her into pieces. The hurt in her silence said more than words ever could.

Dale lingered, heart aching for her, then turned back toward the others.

"We need to get T-Dog to that farm. Now," he said. His voice was clipped—sharper than he intended—but it was the only way he knew how to stay in control.

Carol stepped forward. Her hands trembled at her sides, and her voice came out like a whisper wrapped in thorns. "I won't do it," she said. "We can't just leave."

"Carol, the group is split," Dale said. "We're scattered and weak."

Her eyes something deeper—something that hadn't had time to settle. "What if Casey and Dylan come back and we're not here?" she asked, voice soft but audible. "What if they don't know where we are?"

Andrea stirred. Her voice was soft, but it carried a quiet weight. "If they came back and we were gone…" She looked down, her jaw tightening. "Casey'd figure something out wouldn't he?"

Daryl finally stepped forward, scratching the back of his neck. His eyes flicked to the tree line, watching the horizon turn gold with the falling sun.

"Okay," he said. "We gotta plan for this. Tomorrow morning's soon enough to pull up stakes. Gives us time to rig a sign, tell him where we'd be." He nodded toward the RV. "I'll hold here tonight. Stay with the RV."

Dale looked at him, surprised but relieved. "If the RV's stayin' I am too."

Andrea stepped closer, her voice more certain now. "I'm in."

Glenn looked around at them, half-raising his hand in protest. "Well, if you're all staying, then I'm—"

"Not you, Glenn," Dale said, cutting him off. "You're going. Take Carol's Cherokee."

Glenn's shoulders sagged. "Me? Why is it always me?"

Dale stepped toward him, lowering his voice. "Because you can move fast. You've done it before." He hesitated, his voice lowering further. "And more importantly—you have to get T-Dog there. This isn't an errand. That cut on his arm—it's gone from bad to worse."

He swallowed, the words catching in his throat.

"He's got a serious blood infection. If they don't have antibiotics…"

Dale's voice cracked. "He's gonna die."

A thick silence followed. The kind that carried the weight of too many unspoken things.

Then, without a word, Daryl emerged from the back of the circled cars, a stained canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He tossed it toward T-Dog, who caught it awkwardly with his good arm.

Daryl looked at Glenn, his voice flat. "Keep your oily rags off my brother's motorcycle."

T-Dog opened the bag, eyebrows knitting. "What is this?"

"Merle's stash," Daryl muttered, crouching down to rummage through the contents. "Left it behind when he cut off his damn hand and ran off."

He pulled out a couple of pill bottles and tossed one toward T-Dog. "Got some kick-ass painkillers. And doxycycline. Not the generic crap either. First-class stuff."

Glenn stared, mouth slightly open. "You had this the whole time?"

Daryl didn't even blink. "Why'd you wait till now to say anything?"

T-Dog looked down at the bottle in his hand. He turned it over slowly, then looked up at Daryl with a crooked, tired smile. "Merle got the clap on occasion?"

Daryl snorted, giving a grim chuckle. "Yeah. Among other things."

It was the briefest flicker of levity—a moment of humor between men surviving on scraps of luck and painkillers—but it faded just as quickly, like smoke in the wind.

Dale stepped up beside Glenn. Gently, he placed a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Get him to that farm," Dale said. His voice softened. "And Glenn…"

Their eyes met—old and young, mentor and runner. The weight of everything that had happened, everything that could still go wrong, hung between them.

"Come back safe."